


Does It Call You Or Maul You And Drive You Insane?

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between Out Of Time and Combat. Owen doesn't come in for work after Diane leaves, hurting and grieving, and Ianto comes in to check on him and give him support. Warning for suicidal themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does It Call You Or Maul You And Drive You Insane?

When Diane leaves, the first thing Owen does is sink to the rough tarmac and tremble with too much emotion. Then he sucks in a tight breath, straightens up, and goes to the nearest bar to get completely smashed. He feels more alone, the more people there are, the louder the music is. Those conditions means he doesn’t have to listen to his own thoughts, doesn’t have to feel the emotions heavying his heart and fogging up his brain.  
  
He drinks until he can barely stand, then he calls a cab and goes back to his flat. His flat, which he can barely stand to be in. Diane’s red dress is in a silky pile by the window, like a frozen puddle. He stares at it for a long time before picking it up and hanging it up in his closet, fingers reaching out to touch and caress it, but stopping, moving back before they can brush against it and ignite more pain inside his chest and behind his eyes.  
  
Then he just sits. He sits and waits and stares and feels empty, empty and spent and lost the way he felt after Katie, aching for all this pain to end because that’s what it is, isn’t it? He’s not feeling nothing, he’s feeling everything and _god_ , that’s too much to comprehend when you’re drunk, but he knows it’s true. He’s feeling everything and he can’t stand it, he can’t fucking cope, so instead he feels nothing. Either way he just wants to curl up and sleep forever.  
  
He stands at the window and stares out at the bay until he nearly falls _through_ the window. Then he drags himself onto the couch—right now he can’t sleep in or even look at the bed—curls up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, and falls asleep.  
  
He wakes up cotton-mouthed, needing to pee, his head pounding and eyes scratchy and red. He pisses and showers, drinking the water that drums down on his head in order to clear out his mouth. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to get clean. He can’t even think about going in to work, not today. His phone rings three times in the next hour before he gets smart and turns it off. He’s glad he doesn’t own a landline.  
  
He spends that day ignoring calls and going through all the alcohol he owns. He sits in the chair by the window, his feet up on the ottoman, staring out at nothing as it gets dark. When he glances at his feet, he notices a dark shape beside them. He realizes it’s his gun, which he’d taken off after bringing Diane home that first night. He hadn’t needed it since then. Now he picks it up and stares at it, a curious expression on his face.  
  
There’s something innately pleasing to him about guns. Especially his, with its large, solid weight and masculine shape. It’s heavy and thick and unforgiving in his hands. He examines the handgun with interest. He wonders if it would hurt. He wonders if he’d even register it.  
  
He can’t see anything except the vision of the plane as it flew out of sight, he can’t think straight. His senses are clouded by her departure. He’s moving through a fog of sorrow and he can’t feel anything but the pressure of loss on all sides. His pores are full of pain, his muscles ache, his teeth feel cold. He can’t get a proper breath, and when he tries, it hitches and shakes and he can’t catch any air at all. It’s as if some big black thing is squeezing his skull and his lungs and his heart at once and he can’t function through the pain in his head, the agony in his heart. Anything, any sort of relief, anything at all, would be better than all this hurting. He can’t stand it. Everything is throbbing. He wants to cry, he’s on the edge of tears, but nothing’s coming. He just wants everything to stop. The gun lifts, practically of its own will, cocks, and suddenly he’s leaning his forehead against the barrel, eyes closed in exhaustion. He doesn’t register the knock at the door, doesn’t register anything.  
  
It’s Ianto who has used the spare key to get inside, and he slips in the door, closing it quietly, turning to call his name. He stops, and says Owen’s name in wide-eyed bewilderment. Owen’s head turns slightly to face him, and his fingers automatically uncock the gun at the sight of another human being. His eyes are dull and sad, full of hurt and yearning and an aching loss. They stare at each other.  
  
Ianto’s face is white, his expression shocked and slack before turning pained. The younger man looks at him with pleading eyes before Owen turns away. He can hear Ianto’s awkward rustling as he stands there in silence. Owen cocks the gun again. There’s a slight intake of breath behind him, and small, ragged noise of dissent on the exhale.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ.” And then, “Owen, don’t. Please, don’t.”  
  
Owen is floating in the dark fog again. And he can’t start it, he can’t stop either. He’s stuck in the neutral position, sliding backwards down this hill and he can’t stop because he pinned so much on the prospect of her, on the idea, the hope that maybe she’d pull him up and out and away from all the pain he’s been in since Katie’s death, the pain that never left him and that he never got over. He hopes he can somehow make a decision and end this one way or another.  
  
But Ianto is crossing the room and yanking the gun out of his hand and turning on the safety before throwing it somewhere in the vicinity of the front door. Then he takes Owen by the shoulders and stands him up, shoving him backward into the floor-to-ceiling window and Owen has a sudden flash of pain as he remembers Diane doing the same thing to him and he feels himself slipping again and then Ianto shakes him. Hard.  
  
“Owen.” Owen realizes that Ianto has been repeating his name for a while now, and slowly raises his eyes. He teaboy’s face is close to his, white with something like shock, but there are patches of colour high on his cheeks and his pupils are blown wide. “What the fuck. What are you thinking? Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”  
  
“Why?” Owen asks dully, and he’s not even sure why he’s bothering to respond, it’s not like it matters. “You lot can keep going. I don’t…I don’t know anymore.”  
  
His legs give out as it finally fully hits him how _alone_ he is now, and how much the pain has _not_ gone away. But Ianto’s got his arms around him and is easing him to the floor and pulling him into his lap and Owen struggles and fights, elbowing his colleague in the ribs a few times, but Ianto is strong and keeps a solid grip. Not that Owen has much sober strength to work with. Ianto wraps his arms around Owen’s chest from behind and locks his hands around his wrists so that the medic’s arms are trapped at his sides.  
  
“Stop. Stop struggling. Please stop fighting me.” It’s murmured in his ear, close, sympathetic, and Owen falls limp against the young man.  
  
Ianto loosens his grip but does not let go. He sighs heavily, and it whooshes past Owen’s ear. His brain is filled with static and he can’t even comprehend thought right now past _pain_ and _regret_ and _loss_ and _grief_ and _aching_. The static is so loud and Ianto shakes him again, this time gentle.  
  
“Leave me alone,” he grumbles, unable to voice how he’s feeling right now and therefore unable to let Ianto know how much he’s intruding on pain too personal and raw.  
  
“No.” Ianto sounds determined.  
  
“Did Jack send you here?”  
  
“No. I came here myself.” Ianto sighs again and tightens his hold, and Owen knows he’s about to hear something he won’t like. “I know what it’s like. I was in the same way after Lisa. I know how you feel.”  
  
“No you don’t. No you bloody fucking don’t.” He struggles again but falls limp almost immediately. He growls low in his chest and lets out a sigh, trying to loosen the tightness of his chest that’s so inherent to the emptiness he feels. “I can’t stand it. I can’t do anything. I miss her. I just…I can’t go on, I’m stuck and it scares me. There’s nothing. I can’t…there’s just, I’m empty and it’s all wrong and I’m…”  
  
He can’t articulate it right, but he can feel Ianto nodding against him in understanding.  
  
“I know, Owen. But don’t. Please, please don’t think of leaving.”  
  
Owen’s breath hitches, because he knows that only hours ago he was wondering if anyone would miss him, and the catch in Ianto’s voice seems genuine, the fear in his eyes seems honest. He moves to shift positions and Ianto loosens his grip and lets him curl into a ball on the floor, leaning back halfway against the window and halfway on the teaboy’s chest. He doesn’t know if he can deal with living through the empty-full pain he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking with dry sobs until he feels Ianto’s hand rubbing warm circles across his back.  
  
“I don’t know if I can…” Deal with this? Go through with this? Go back to work? Love anyone again? Breathe? Owen’s not sure how that sentence was supposed to end, and so he leaves it hanging.  
  
“I know,” Ianto says, and now his hand is gripping the back of Owen’s neck in a supportive gesture, kneading lightly. “But please just promise. Promise me, Owen.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Owen. There’s a hell of a lot more out there. There’s more people, more things, more experiences out there. Jack taught me that. They’re all important and they’re all good. You can’t forget that or you’ll be stuck in this limbo.”  
  
But Owen’s been stuck in limbo for so long he can’t even remember what it felt like to be free, and so he doesn’t reply. He’s been stuck in limbo since long before Katie died and it hurts to think of getting out where there’s too much new stuff and too many rules to follow that might hurt even more later.  
  
“Owen,” Ianto tries again. “I know there is nothing more painful than staking everything on love and then losing it. I know. It’s happened to me. But it’s rock bottom and there is honestly no where to go but up from here because this is as low as you’re gonna get and Owen, it’s better once you get back up. It really is.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.” His reply is muffled as he presses his face against his bent knees.  
  
“I know. But it is.” Owen nods, just barely moving, but Ianto feels it and his grip on the medic’s neck relaxes. “Just promise you won’t try again. Ever.”  
  
“Can’t promise ever, Ianto. But I won’t try again now. I promise.” And he’s being honest; at the moment he’s too exhausted to try anything. He just wants to sleep for ages, and he can feel sleep and darkness tugging at the corners of his eyes and recesses of his mind. Ianto seems to know this, and he stands, and pulls Owen up by his shoulders and guides him into the bedroom. Owen is about to protest, but stops himself and huddles into the big bed, feeling very small and very alone. His eyes drift closed, but he’s aware of Ianto sitting at the end of the bed, watching him, and as he’s about to drop off to sleep, he vaguely registers as Ianto manhandles his left hand open and slides the folded white scarf between his fingers.  
  
Ianto’s not there in the morning when he wakes up and he wonders if it was all a dream. He puts the scarf on underneath his shirt after he showers, and goes to find a bar open this early, so he can start his day of getting as dead pissed as possible in order to lose, forget, stop feeling, fill the emptiness, whatever it is he’s trying to do. He has to hold the tears at bay. He has to avoid the ache inside him or he might just come apart at the seams like he knows he’s threatening to do. He feels ready to crawl out of his own skin, and he knows one push might send him in either direction, poised on the knife’s edge. Looking on either side, he’s not sure which is the right one. But anything at all, any relief, is better than this constant pain. And if he has hit rock bottom, like Ianto said, maybe he’ll try to go one step further. Nothing can hurt more than it already does. Not now, not today. Not with Diane gone.


End file.
